


Scrambled Eggs by Any Other Name

by Dawnwind



Category: Starsky and Hutch - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-04
Updated: 2011-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-18 23:03:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>French Toast makes everything just a little better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scrambled Eggs by Any Other Name

"Next time you decide to try an' stop a wall with your cheeks." Starsky breathed in, just once, to release all the fear he'd bottled up. Hutch was bruised and battered, and mad as hell, but upright and walking. "Turn around. There's a little more padding back there." He swatted his partner on the derriere with the rolled up discharge papers.

 

"Think you're funny?" Hutch snatched the papers from Starsky and marched out of the ER.

 

"Usually." Starsky just let himself gaze at Hutch. His partner was in one piece. That was enough for one afternoon and an unexpectedly rough arrest of a known drug dealer.

 

In the parking lot, Hutch stopped a car speeding through the pedestrian crosswalk with a sharp glare and an authoritative hand. The driver looked thoroughly cowed. If Dobey's threats to demote them both down to traffic cop ever came true, Hutch had the moves down cold. "Damned idiots." Hutch muttered, stamping past a line of parked cars to the Torino. He yanked on the door handle, but it was locked.

 

Deliberately taking his time, Starsky held up the keys with a smirk and walked slower to allow himself the luxury of just watching Hutch. He could laugh now. The whole mess was over, and the fucker who did this to Hutch was behind bars, probably listening to a wet-behind-the-ears baby public defender trip over the formal wording at the bail hearing.

 

Even with his elevated status as a cop, Hutch's injuries hadn't merited getting into the ER's exam room ahead of more seriously wounded patients. He and Starsky had cooled their heels in the waiting room for over three hours before Hutch was seen—a multi-car pile up, complete with a jack-knifed big rig, had seen to that. The ambulances had brought in five victims. Starsky knew he should have been more sympathetic to their plight, but he'd been so thankful that Hutch had survived being slammed full force against a wall without a single broken bone that he'd endured the three hour wait without complaint. Hutch, on the other hand, had groused enough for both of them.

 

"You going to start this tomato and drive me home?" Hutch raised a hand to the raw abrasions on the left side of his face. He grimaced without touching, and dropped his hand back onto the door handle just as Starsky swung into the car and unlocked it from the inside.

 

Starsky grinned, totally happy. "My place, and French toast."

 

"Starsk, all I want is scrambled eggs, a couple slices of bread, about six aspirin and a bed."

 

"I got that." Starsky directed the Torino towards his side of Bay City, driving on the smoothest, most unpotholed streets, because he was transporting precious cargo.

 

"Scrambled eggs," Hutch reminded tiredly. "Not some improbably named breakfast dessert."

 

"Hutch!" Starsky used a long stop light to peer at his partner over the top of his sunglasses. "What do you think French toast is made of?" When Hutch simply rolled his eyes in distain, Starsky had the urge to either slug his other cheek or kiss it. "I been making French toast since I could walk—and it's not just for breakfast, Julia Child."

 

"It's still sweet," Hutch grumped.

 

"That's the great thing about it!" Starsky pressed a little harder on the gas. They had to get to his place pronto. What Hutch needed was the luscious flavor of French Toast and syrup on his tongue, delighting his palate with that juxtaposition of textures: crispy pan fried bread covered with thick, real maple that soaked into every crevasse.

 

"We weren't allowed to eat things like that when I was a kid." Hutch gazed fixedly out the window, the tight muscles in his jaw a direct contrast to the exhausted sprawl of his body. He'd melted back into the seat of the car like a cat.

 

"Like what? You beat eggs in with milk, add cinnamon and dip the bread into the mixture. It's good for you!"

 

"When was the last time you took a nutrition class, galloping gourmet?" Hutch's eyelids were drooping lower and he gave a jaw-cracking yawn that must have hurt. He winced, one hand hovering over the raw wounds on his face as if he knew better than to touch but just really wanted to. "Refined white sugar? Eggs are full of cholesterol, I could go on and on…"

 

"You often do," Starsky said affectionately. "And, I'll just point out that real maple ain't refined, it comes from trees." He poked Hutch with one finger, very gently, in case he had any bruises along the rib cage. "Natural, like you're always talking about. I take a stand at that back stabbed molasses…"

 

"Blackstrap," Hutch muttered under his breath, a tiny smile hovering on his lips.

 

"Cause that just sounds nasty, but maple syrup is great stuff." Starsky took the turn onto his street and gunned the motor to get up the steep incline to his house on the hill.

 

"My grandfather had maple trees on his farm," Hutch said softly, like he was looking backwards into childhood. "He showed me how to tap the trees, but I was five, maybe six, and that was boring."

 

"As slow as molasses in January," Starsky quoted with a laugh.

 

"Until my grandmother pored the hot syrup over a bowl of snow." Hutch grimaced, sitting up straighter as Starsky pulled the car into the driveway. "I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. My mother never let us to eat sweets."

 

"We couldn'a done that one the dirty snow in New York," Starsky commented, absorbing the goodness of the moment. The perfection of having Hutch with him and not holed up at the hospital, which could have so easily happened if Bucky Fullerton had been just a little stronger, or Hutch a little slower in reacting. Starsky shuddered and shook off the memory of seeing it from too away to come to his partner's aid. All in the past, now simply fodder for late night scary dreams after Creature Features and a big bowl of rocky road with strawberry sauce on top.

 

He hopped out of the car and ran around to the other side to help Hutch out. The expression on Hutch's face was the same one that held lesser men at bay, but Starsky was no wimp. He hooked an arm around Hutch's and gently unwedged him from the Torino. "Just keep the memory of that maple sugar candy in what you call a brain, ya big lug, and give the French toast a chance."

 

"I'm too tired to fight with you, buddy," Hutch conceded, walking stiffly up the front steps. "But I cannot let you do all the cooking."

 

"Why?" Starsky cocked his head, opening the door one handed. "You don't trust my culinary skills?"

 

"Trust you with a gun, but cracking eggs…" Hutch made something that sounded suspiciously like a stifled laugh. "I've seen too many hit the floor."

 

"Hey! I'm not the one with the reputation as a klutz!" Starsky peeled off his jacket and holster, relishing the feel of freedom after being strapped with four pounds of steel under his right arm all day. He had the urge to do a cartwheel just to see Hutch's eyes on him. Just to see what it would do to Hutch's libido. He made do with a couple of air punches and footwork worthy of Mohammed Ali. "I intend to dazzle you, Hutch! A taste sensation."

 

He danced into the kitchen, with a leisurely Hutch in his wake, and opened the refrigerator to grab eggs and milk. Since Hutch wanted to help so badly, Starsky placed the egg carton in his arms with a courtly bow.

 

"Break away, master chef."

 

"I think I will," Hutch said, going over to the sink to pour a glass of water. He downed two of the Tylenol with codeine that the pretty ER doctor had given him.

 

Starsky plunked a bowl onto the counter and pulled open the drawer where he kept the spices. He pushed aside chili, paprika and curry ferreting out the cinnamon. "Knew I still had some!" He held the shaker bottle aloft. "Hutch, did you ever suck on a stick of cinnamon? Tastes like bark, but spicy…" He stopped, surprised to find that Hutch hadn't cracked a single egg. "Whatcha doing?"

 

"You ever think how fragile life can be?" Hutch held the pristine egg in the palm of his hand, letting it roll very slightly from side to side. "This looks solid—indestructible. But all I have to do is tap it gently on the counter and…" He demonstrated, the smooth white egg smashing inward, yellow yolk oozing between Hutch's fingers.

 

"Aw, Hutch." Starsky pulled Hutch into his arms, careful not to press too hard or lean against the damaged cheek, but even so, there was strength, life and need in his hug. "Ain't gonna happen. Not to either of us. Not for a long time." He felt Hutch let out an unsteady breath, their ribs knocking against each other. Other body parts came in contact, waking up, warming up—and then Starsky's stomach growled, loudly.

 

"First things first," Hutch said shakily, but when Starsky stepped back to look at him, he realized that Hutch was laughing. "Your belly has spoken."

 

Starsky grinned ruefully, rubbing his offending stomach. Nutrition wasn't what he wanted most, even French toast. "That can wait if you…"

 

"Very willing, Starsk," Hutch said, his voice husky and those blue eyes sliding down to take in the bulge in Starsky's jeans. Starsky resisted the urge to adjust himself and canted his hips forward to watch the heat there transfer into Hutch's gaze. "But later? After food, rest and maybe…" He let his head down, resting it on Starsky's shoulder.

 

"Breakfast in bed?" Starsky said past the lump that had lodged in his throat. The thing seemed made of equal parts love and embarrassing, very unmanly tears.

 

"Sounds great." Hutch raised his mouth just enough to capture Starsky's.

 

Starsky surged into the kiss, sucking in Hutch's breath, pushing his tongue into Hutch's very willing mouth. They lingered long, egg yolk sticking their hands together and ending up smeared on Hutch's jacket and Starsky's chin.

 

"I'd dip you in some milk and cinnamon and fry you up, but I don't have a Hutchinson sized pan," Starsky whispered, nipping Hutch on the uninjured side of his face.

 

"You trying to bruise me over there, too?" Hutch complained without rancor.

 

"It'd even you out." Starsky held him steady with both palms curved around Hutch's neck while he examining Hutch's face, "Right now, you're like one of them masks, one side the angel." He touched the smooth, fair skinned cheek with the ball of his thumb. "And the other the devil." He floated his hand inches above the red, scraped up cheek.

 

"Sweet talker, aren't you?" Hutch looked down at the splotches of bright yellow yolk that decorated both of them. "What a mess."

 

"You've got more of it on you than I do." Starsky shrugged out of the plaid shirt he was wearing over a dark blue tee. A dish towel took care of the egg on his face and hands. "Why doncha go take a shower and get all tucked into my bed. Then I'll show you just how good scrambled eggs can taste with a French accent."

 

"An omelet? Or perhaps you mean l'oeuf." Hutch gave a Gallic shrug, one blond eyebrow raised higher than Mr. Spock ever could.

 

"Egging me on, huh?" Starsky twisted the dish towel into a tight roll and snapped it at Hutch, but his target stepped nimbly to the side. "Just see who the yolk's on now."

 

"Please, I've had enough pun-ishment for one day!" Hutch snatched the dish towel away, flipping it over his shoulder. "After all this water rationing, I've got my shower down to two minutes. Can you make this fancy toast in that amount of time?"

 

"Already half way there, pardner," Starsky said with a cowboy twang, cracking two more eggs over the side of the big blue bowl. He splashed in some milk and was whisking the mixture with a liberal dash of cinnamon before Hutch had the water in the shower turned on.

 

Neither one of them quite finished their activities in two minutes. After showering, it took Hutch longer than that to shave around the injured parts of his face, and Starsky had to throw the moistened bread into the frying pan, turn on the coffee maker, and warm up the syrup.

 

"Haul your pretty, naked ass into my bed," Starsky called out when the electric razor switched off. "I'm just about ready." He grinned, sniffing at the wonderful scents of fresh brewed coffee and cloyingly sweet syrup. With a deft flip of the wrist, he slid the sizzling slices of French toast out of the frying pan and onto a single plate. They would just eat off each other's plate, so using only one cut down on the dishwashing.

 

He plunged his pinky in the syrup to test the temperature. Perfect. Not too cold and not boiling, either. Licking his finger was much tastier, and more expedient. Starsky sucked on the tip, pouring syrup liberally over the toast. Two forks, napkins and a mug of coffee to share all went onto his favorite "I hate mornings" tray, the one with Snoopy blearily sipping his first cup of the day.

 

"What's taking so long?" Hutch said from the bedroom. "More than five minutes, Chef-boy-r-dee."

 

"Hold your horses, I'm coming!" Starsky shimmied out of his jeans and flipped the blue T over his head. Picking up the tray, he made sure that it covered a strategic area of his anatomy before walking carefully into the bedroom.

 

"Well," Hutch drawled out the word into three syllables, his eyes lighting up at the sight of his waiter. "You didn't say that I'd get sausage with the French toast."

 

"Only if you eat everything on the plate," Starsky said, trying to keep a straight face. The shower had done wonders for Hutch's attitude, or maybe it was just the puns, but leisurely softness had replaced the tight, hunched anger.

 

"There's only one plate." Hutch scooted over to let Starsky onto the bed, although his hand just happened to flick across Starsky's dangling cock.

 

"Keep those mitts where I can see 'em," Starsky mock growled, but his penis apparently enjoyed the barely-there caress. It was already expanding. "There's only one plate because Bay City's supposed to cut down on the water usage, remember, ye-of-the-two-minute-shower."

 

"We could have showered together," Hutch said seductively.

 

"Then I wouldn't have gotten dinner made." Starsky tsk-tsked, cutting the toast into bite sized pieces. He sampled the first one. It was so incredible that his toes curled, especially when Hutch reached up to nibble the last morsels of eggy-bread and syrup off his bottom lip.

 

"Mmm. Where's mine?"

 

Starsky captured Hutch's mouth, sucking in his tongue in a life-altering kiss. "Want me to feed you?" he asked at last.

 

"I have a feeling," Hutch said, leaning back to pick up his own fork. "That you would eat it all, and I'd just get the leftovers." He speared a cube of toast and dunked it in syrup before popping it in his mouth. Chewing very slowly, Hutch used the tip of his pink tongue to lap up every drop from his lips.

 

Starsky watched the show, his own mouth watering at the sight. Even with his parti-colored face, Hutch was still more than beautiful. He was gorgeous. His right cheek was swelling, impinging on the right eye, but he had survived an attack that could have broken his cheekbone, if not outright killed him. Starsky leaned in for another kiss, savoring the sticky sweetness of his partner. Savoring the reality of him.

 

"No cannibalism," Hutch warned, laughing against Starsky's mouth. "Eat your own French toast."

 

Starsky settled back, getting into a rhythm with Hutch, alternating turns to fork up a piece of the marvelous concoction until the plate was squeaky clean. They passed the coffee cup back and forth with lazy ease. "So?" Starsky poked Hutch in the shin with his big toe. "Didn't I tell you? Nothing better than French toast."

 

"Oh." Hutch eyed him with obviously evil intent. "It fills the belly, but I can think of other things far, far better."

 

"My, Grandma," Starsky fluttered a la Red Riding Hood. "What big eyes you have." He cupped his hands under Hutch's thick cock. "And so many other big things, too."

 

"No little girls who run away from forest-dwelling wolves allowed in my bed." Hutch launched himself over Starsky so that he landed on both knees, with his butt on Starsky's thighs. "In fact—no little girls at all, period. Because I am the big bad wolf and I…"

 

"Plan to eat me up?" Starsky finished with a chuckle that turned into a gasp of pleasure when Hutch slurped up his cock, and most of the length disappeared between Hutch's talented lips. "Oh…" Starsky breathed, throwing his head back. He grabbed Hutch at the biceps, holding on tightly. His penis seemed to be swirling in hot, moist syrup, pulled gently into a vortex that tugged but never strangled. He wanted to dive into that mouth, slide down the slick, hot tunnel until he was completely enveloped.

 

The pressure eased off for just a second and Starsky cried out, missing the suction. Hutch reapplied himself with gusto, blowing on the wet crown and once again taking nearly all of Starsky's cock into his mouth. Obviously a multi-tasker, Hutch gathered up Starsky's balls, squeezing gently as he sucked the semen right out of him.

 

His back arched, with his head touching the wall behind him, Starsky released all the air in his lungs, the climax flinging him up and out into the cosmos. It took several minutes for him to float back down to land afterwards.

 

"Hey," Hutch said softly. "Thought I'd lost you there for a moment."

 

"You did." Starsky yawned widely, gazing at Hutch in wonder. "Bumps, bruises and…"

 

"Don't forget abrasions and contusions." Hutch held up his forefinger with that damned professorial voice.

 

"Don't those mean the same thing?" Starsky smacked him on the chest. "Didn't cramp your style one bit. You upped the ante considerably."

 

"Throw down your hand, gambling man," Hutch dared with a glint in his eye. The continued swelling was giving him a very lop-sided look, but he didn't appear to be in much pain if his performance so far was any indication. "I want to see all aces."

 

"Got one king," Starsky leaned over, cradling Hutch's swollen penis. "'Cause he's wearing a crown." He scooted down just a little, and with his head pillowed on Hutch's thigh, Starsky lapped the length.

 

Hutch breathed out, on a long sigh. "If I'm the King," he managed between gasps. "Does that make you the Ja…"

 

"Ace, cause I sure ain't the Queen," Starsky said wickedly and ran his teeth along the ridge on the underside of Hutch's cock.

 

Hutch jerked with a howl that nearly bucked him off. Thigh smacked chin, and Starsky came close to biting a big chunk of Hutchinson. Backing away from his tempting sucker, Starsky eyed his partner warily. "Careful, you big lug, or there's no happy ending for you!"

 

"Don't happy endings start out with a massage?" Hutch panted, lying back against the pillows.

 

"Generally." Starsky placed both hands on Hutch's groin, rubbing small, gentle circles to each side of his penis. Every once in a while, he advanced on the throbbing length, but just enough to tease and not to satisfy. Hutch made tiny appreciative sounds without moving so much as a muscle, as relaxed as Starsky had seen him in a while. He planned to give Hutch a lot of loving over the next couple of days. And write the entire arrest report himself, with a bare minimum of what Dobey called "overly exciting verbs and descriptions."

 

Starsky sat back on his heels, grinning. Hutch looked almost asleep, but Starsky knew better. Those weren't snores coming from his half parted lips, that was purring.

 

"King of big yellow cats, that's what you are," Starsky said, getting down between Hutch's thighs again. "Just a big ol' lion."

 

"Waiting for my happy ending," Hutch muttered, lazily lifting a hand to glide through Starsky's curls.

 

"Once upon a time, the Ace a' Bay City went down on the King…" Starsky slurped Hutch in, closing his eyes at the luscious sensation of all that pulsing, alive bulk filling his mouth. He swirled his tongue around and around, loving the way Hutch moaned and called out his name in a strangled, needy voice. He knew when Hutch was close to coming because he ran out of words, his whole body tightening in anticipation, the muscles in his thighs bunching as if he was running toward the orgasm.

 

Semen flooded Starsky's throat and he pulled half off to avoid being drowned, but also to watch Hutch. His damaged face was lax and pure as he climaxed. Something constricted around Starsky's heart, a silk cord that drew him to Hutch. He pulled Hutch into his arms, rocking him with gratitude for whatever deity kept watch over two accident-prone Bay City cops.

 

"And they lived happily ever after…" Starsky said, feeling Hutch's arms go around his waist.

 

"Think you can make that French toast again tomorrow?" Hutch asked.

 

FIN


End file.
